


You were the first, you'll be the last

by Builder



Series: Nat on Fire [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Eating Disorders, F/F, Fever, Flashbacks, Gen, Helpful Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mental Health Issues, Mission Fic, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Sickfic, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Vomiting, heat exhaustion, villain maria hill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 13:45:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14916473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: “Nat.”  Steve strokes her hair away from her face.  His fingers invite rivulets of cool air into the tracks he creates along her sweaty hairline.  “I think we’re past this.  The lying?”“’M not.”“You can be honest with me.  I don’t see why that’s so hard for you.”“Hmph.  You don’t see a lot of things.”__________What starts out as heat exhaustion becomes much, much more.Nat on Fire 5.0





	You were the first, you'll be the last

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat/gifts).



> This is a bit of a throwback to Nat on Fire 1.0 (Hotter than a fantasy, lonely like a highway), which I realize very few of you have probably read. In that fic, I established a very negative and borderline abusive relationship between Nat and Maria Hill. I really took that and ran with it in this one, and I feel the need to make a few things clear. 
> 
> My Nat on Fire stories don’t coexist or build on one another. Each one is basically the same story told over again with different details.
> 
> I don’t for a single second believe the canon Maria Hill is anything like the sleazy bitch I’m making her out to be in this fic. Her behavior is absolutely abhorrent here, and I do not condone it at all. I occasionally use Maria as a side character in other ‘verses, sometimes as a crush for Nat, and in basically every other instance, she’s an upstanding woman.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: eating disorders, drug use, self-harm, alcohol, suicidal thoughts, mentions of sex, mentions of casual hookups that could be interpreted as prostitution, manipulative/abusive relationships, PTSD, panic attacks (that one’s kinda iffy), and vomiting. Honestly, it’s the same drill as all the other Nat on Fire fics. Come in knowing what you’re gonna get. It’s dark stuff.

_____

Touching heat freezing on my skin  
I pretend you still hold me  
I'm going crazy, I'm losing sleep

_____

Nat’s arms are over her head before she’s fully awake.  The sound rings out both in her conscious mind and in her evaporating dream.  She ducks, retracting her shoulders under the quilt, waiting for the bullet to pass overhead. 

It doesn’t, though.  It takes her a moment to blink her way into awareness and realize that she’s not in combat.  She’s in bed.  And safe.  Or at least she would be if the bad dreams would ever leave her alone.  But they’re just an occupational hazard.  She should get used to it.

A loud crack rings through the apartment again, and this time Nat places it.  Another occupational hazard.  She rolls over and finds the dirty carpet with her feet, then fights dizziness for a second as she stands up.  Nat sighs and pushes her hair out of her face.  She snags a pair of sweats out of the laundry pile and yanks them on before stumbling across the studio to answer the door.

Nat knows who it is, and she unlocks the door and throws it open with grit in her eyes and personal safety low on her list of priorities. 

“Yeah, I know I’m late,” she mumbles before Steve can so much as say good morning.  “Just give me a second.”

“Oh,” Steve says awkwardly.  He has a Gatorade in each hand, and he transfers one to the crook of his arm as he grips the doorframe.  “I can wait.  Or we don’t have to go today…”

“No, it’s fine,” Nat says, clearing her throat to get the groggy rasp out of her voice.  “Here, come in for a minute.”

“Ok…” Steve says.  “Are you sure?  I can wait out here…”  He looks past Nat into the one-room apartment, taking in the view of her open closet and calculating the lack of privacy. 

“Yeah, it’s fine.”  Nat holds the door open for him.  “I know you like to hit the pavement before the folks with kids and bikes wake up.” 

“Yeah…”  Steve wipes his running shoes on the concrete step in front of the door before stepping inside.

“You don’t have to do that,” Nat sighs.  “Just come in.  Sit down.”  She gestures to her threadbare La-Z-Boy and the otherwise empty living area. 

Steve hovers beside the chair, but doesn’t sit.  “Hey, if you’re not feeling up to it, we don’t have to go…”

“I feel fine,” Nat says, though the throb blooming between her eyes says otherwise.  She feels top-heavy and unbalanced as she bends over to grab a pair of running shorts from the bottom of the closet.  “Just gotta…get dressed.”

“Oh, sure.”  Steve turns his back.

“Christ, Steve,” Nat almost giggles.  “Embarrassed much?”  She takes the shorts and a sports bra and steps into the bathroom.  The misaligned door doesn’t completely close, but Nat’s not worried.  It’s not like her body’s much of a temple anyway. 

There’s a fleck of dried vomit on the toilet seat from last night.  Or maybe last week or last month.  Nat’s not fanatical about cleaning.  She’s not used to having guests.  The knowledge that Steve’s in the next room prompts her to tear of a square of toilet paper and scrape it off. 

Nat dresses quickly and leaves her pajamas in a pile on the bathmat.  She looks at her reflection in the mirror as she finger-combs her hair into a ponytail.  She’s pale.  Probably too pale, but she’s not going down the path of judging herself.  Not today.  She’s just getting ready to go for a run.  A regular part of physical training.  It’s not a mechanism to burn extra calories.  Not self-torture.  And definitely not a move to impress the supersoldier in her living room. 

Nat shakes five ibuprofen into her palm and swallows them with a sip of water straight from the tap.  She hopes they’ll dull her headache enough make it through the morning.  She looks forward to shaking Steve off and wasting the afternoon with half a bottle of vodka and a detective novel.  Maybe a couple of sleeping pills.  They’ll make her feel better before they make everything worse. 

Nat’s still pushing the pills down with a series of dry swallows when she re-joins Steve.  She jams her feet into her shoes without bothering to untie them, wiggling her heels into the sneakers as she asks, “Ready?”

“Yeah,” he replies.  “But, you sure?”

Nat’s already tired of him asking.  “Yes,” she says, exasperation overriding the tiredness in her tone.  “Come on.  Before it gets any hotter outside.”

“Do you need, like, breakfast first or something?” Steve asks, following Nat to the door.

Nat wrinkles her nose.  “Not all of us burn calories like you do.  I’ll eat when I get back.”  She won’t, but Steve doesn’t need to know that.

Steve chuckles.  “Well, I brought you this, just in case,” he says, holding up the Gatorade. 

“Thanks,” Nat says dryly, making no move to take the beverage.  She locks the apartment door behind them and tucks her keys into her pocket.  “I hope you’re gonna carry it, though.  It’s like running with dumbbells.”

Steve grins and flexes.

“Show off,” Nat mutters, and she takes off down the sidewalk.  Not a move to impress the supersoldier at all.

“Oh, I’m the show off?”  Steve laughs and bursts into a sprint for a few seconds until he catches up with her, then slows to match Nat’s pace. 

“Yeah.  I would never,” Nat says, giving him a sideways look.  They both laugh.  Nat inhales her own spit and breaks off with a hack into her elbow.  Her throat burns as a reminder that she hasn’t been taking care of herself lately, but Nat just clears her airway and tries to forget about it.

“You ok?”  Steve looks like he’s ready to pat her on the back, but Nat’s not about to allow him do that. 

“Fine,” she chokes out, then pushes herself to run faster. 

They have to go single-file for a bit as they pass what looks like a high school track team jogging in the opposite direction, and Nat’s grateful for the space.  When they finally have the sidewalk to themselves again, Steve pops back up at her shoulder.  She can see him watching her in his peripheral vision, and Nat puts on another burst of speed. 

They train together for camaraderie.  To encourage each other to do their best and not let their fitness lag.  As lame and chicken soupy as it sounds, it’s the truth.  Well, mostly.  Nat might have a few reasons of her own.  And it seems Steve does too, because he’s watching her a little too closely.  Or maybe Nat’s just getting paranoid. 

A grating feeling starts up in Nat’s lungs as she keeps up the sprint.  Sweat drips from her hairline down to her neck.  She wants to jerk her head to the side to wipe the droplet away with the sleeve of her t-shirt, but she’s starting to feel like she might fall over if she moves her head.  It’s a sobering reminder of the bad things she’s been up to lately, and she’s not letting Steve find out if she can help it.  Nat sucks in as much air as she can and ignores the itch of her perspiration. 

She follows their usual route, acutely aware as the throb of her shoes against the concrete starts to match the throb of her heartbeat.  Nat matches landmarks to the miles: the Italian deli with the striped awnings makes two; the ice cream shop on the corner makes three.   The crossfit box with the tastefully graffitied sign makes four, which makes half the run finished.  Usually Nat makes a joke about going in there tomorrow and changing up the routine.  Then Steve comes back with something about being too old for a place like that.  But today Nat doesn’t have the breath to say anything. 

They’re right around mile five (the statue of a rearing horse set between two office buildings) when Nat’s foot slips off the curb.  She processes what’s happening instantaneously, a sharp-yet-not-dangerous pain and a stumbled step, but it takes her brain a ridiculous amount of time to understand what that means.  She keeps jogging even as she starts to fall, and it’s only Steve grabbing her by the back of her t-shirt that keeps her from hitting the ground.

“Whoa, you alright?” he asks, dropping the bottles of Gatorade and steadying Nat with both hands.  He makes as if to support her to sit on the edge of the sidewalk, but she weakly brushes him off.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Nat pants.  She shakes the foot she tripped on.  It pops, which sends a zing up her shin, but it’s not sprained.  Just jarred.  She can live with that.  Nat steps out of the gutter and tries to pick up her pace again, but after a couple of steps she staggers again.  “Fuck,” she mutters.

“Hey, hold up a minute.”  This time, Steve throws his arm around her waist like a seatbelt.  “Listen to your body.”

Nat lets out a derisive snort that barely conceals a gasp for air.  Listen to her body?  Is he insane?  Nat’s used to doing everything in her power to make her body shut up. “God, do you think I’d get anything done if I…”  She trails off as the sidewalk flashes in front of her eyes.  The sun seems too bright, greying out the edges of her visual field.  She’s about ten times warmer than she was a moment ago. 

“Stay with me.”  Steve taps her on the shoulder a few times, then pushes Nat onto the pavement ass-first.  “Here.  Sit down for a second.”  His big hand comes down on her back, bowing her spine so her forehead finds her knees.  The skin-on-skin contact is damp and disgusting, and Nat barely swallows the urge to heave. 

“Can you hear me?” Steve asks, concern edging into his tone.

“Yes.  Lemme up, dammit,” Nat wheezes.

“No, you need to get your breath.”

“Fuck that.”  Nat aims a shove at Steve and sits upright, but the motion sets off a chain reaction and she lurches forward as a heave explodes out of her, spraying her knees and the street with spit. 

“It’s ok,” Steve says hurriedly, patting her back again.  “Just breathe.”

“Shut up,” Nat tries to say, but it’s lost as she gags again, vomiting up a trickle of water and not much else.  It’s sour as bile, and holds a chemical tinge from the painkillers she’d swallowed earlier.  Nat supposes she held them down long enough to have an effect, though it didn’t turn out to be much.  Her head throbs fit to burst, and the retching isn’t helping. 

She heaves immensely, leaning over her knees.  Her throat feels like it’s trying to turn inside out. 

Steve’s grip closes around her bicep.  “Try to relax,” he says, though he’s sounding further and further away with each utterance.  “Breathe.”  His other hand brushes her cheek.  “You’re really warm.  Do you feel like you’re overheating?”

She feels like she’s dying.  Nat can barely open her mouth against the continued pressure of nausea, and nodding her head will surely make her tumble forward into the street.  It’s not like she really wants to state an affirmative, anyway.  Nat gives an uncomfortable grunt. 

“Ok, uh…”  Steve waffles for a moment, then one of the bottles of Gatorade materializes out of nowhere against the back of Nat’s neck.  She yelps with surprise at the sudden icy touch, then starts to cough. 

“It’s ok,” Steve tells her again.  “You can drink some of this in a minute.  I’m just trying to cool you off.”  He gently pushes a loose piece of hair behind Nat’s ear.  Nat sees fit to wipe her mouth on her wrist and elbow his hand away as soon as she can.

“Have you ever had heat exhaustion before?” Steve asks.

“No,” Nat grumbles.  “And I don’t have it now.” 

“Nat, come on.  You were sweating a little while ago, and you’re not anymore.  Don’t tell me you feel fine, because you obviously don’t.”  Steve hesitates, then presses on.  “I mean, you’re pale, you’re flushed…”

“Those are pretty contradictory statements,” Nat says with a humorless laugh.

“You know what I mean.”  Steve adjusts the cold drink against Nat’s skin.  “You…you don’t look so good.”

“Don’t I, though?”  Another chuckle.  Nat fights not to dip into the realm of hysteria.

“God.”  Steve shakes his head.  “That’s not what I meant.”  He removes the sports drink from behind Nat’s head.  “You want to try some of this?”

Nat’s not sure she can keep down her own saliva, but she’d like to keep that thought private.  She just shrugs.  Steve starts to offer the bottle, but both their phones begin to ring simultaneously, and he freezes.  He looks at Nat, who looks back at him. 

“Damn,” Steve says, at the exact same moment Nat breathes, “Fuck.”  It can only mean one thing.  They have a mission.

“You don’t have to answer that,” Steve starts, but Nat’s already freeing her phone from the pocket of her shorts. 

“Romanov,” she rasps, doing her best to swallow the slur edging her words. 

“I hope I didn’t wake you up,” Agent Hill’s voice says. 

Nat’s heartbeat doesn’t slow.  “You didn’t.”

“Good.  I’d hate to think of you lying in bed with some Calvin Klein model.”  Maria laughs. 

Nat lets out her breath and tries not to gag.  “No.  Just sitting on the sidewalk with one,” she manages.  Nausea forces its way out of her in a breathy cough.

Steve gives her a concerned pat on the back.  Nat holds her phone to her chest for a moment and hisses at him, “Answer your fucking call.”

“No,” Steve says staunchly.  “I—we—can’t right now.  You need medical care.”

“Drop it,” Nat says with as much force as she can muster.  “Or I’ll put you on speaker.”

“Ok, ok, fine.”  Steve rescues his phone a second before the call goes to voicemail.  “Nick.  Hey,” he says, making an exaggerated face at Nat.  “What’s going on?” 

Nat returns her phone to her ear.  “Sorry,” she says, though she doesn’t mean it.  “Rogers forgot how to do the touch screen again.  You should really set him up with a flip phone.”

“Ah.  Spending the morning together?”  Nat can practically hear Maria raising her eyebrows. 

“What’s the mission, Hill?” Nat asks.  She’s starting to feel the urge to vomit again.

“Hostages, intel, the basics,” Maria yawns.  “Mexico city.  In and out.  You know the drill.”

“Hm.”

“How soon can you be ready to go?”

Nat knows she’s not mission-ready.  Bile burns in her throat, and the thought of flying a thousand-odd miles down south fills her with dread.  Even if she wasn’t currently fighting vertigo on a street corner, she still might not be mission-ready.  Nat’s last physical was three months and roughly seven pounds ago.  She wasn’t taking so many painkillers then either.  Or so much vodka.

Nat craves another handful of ibuprofen, or just something to take the edge off her headache.  A couple shots might do the trick, too.  “I need to go home and change,” Nat says into the phone.

“That’ll take too long,” Maria replies curtly.  “I’ll have a car come pick you up.  You and Rogers.  I’ll bring you your gear.”

“Joy.” 

“I’ll be at your GPS location in 15 minutes,” Maria says.  Nat can practically see her pulling it up on her computer screen.  “You weren’t lying.  You really are on the sidewalk.”

“Is that really news to you?”  Nat’s proud of the snark she dredges up. 

“Of course not.  See you soon.”  Maria ends the call. 

Nat swears under her breath and drops her phone into her lap, then rests her aching head in her hands. 

“Who was that?”  Steve’s already finished with his call, and he’s in full hovering mode again. 

“God.  Fucking Hill,” Nat says, barely suppressing a gag.  “Who called you?”  Nat already knows, but she’d rather Steve do the talking.

“Fury,” he says.  “Said there’s a hostage situation.  In Mexico.”

“Huh.”  Nat nods.

“Is that, uh, what you were told too?”

“Yup.”  Nat pops the  _p_ , put ruins the effect when the heave she’s been suppressing bursts from her lips, sending more spit and bile into the gutter.  “Shit.” 

“Here,” Steve offers the Gatorade again.  “Try some of this.”

“Rogers…” Nat chokes, shaking her head.  “Stop.”

“You’re really dehydrated!” he  insists.

“Just…shut up…”  Nat rubs her temples with the heels of her hands.  “First, flipping Maria, now you…”

“What’s wrong with Agent Hill?” Steve asks.  “You two have, a, uh, a cat fight?”  The modern words are odd coming out of his mouth, like puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit. 

“I guess you can say that,” Nat mumbles.  She wonders if it’s appropriate to swish and spit with the Gatorade.  “Let’s just say there’s a good reason why I never encourage you to date anyone in our department.”

“What?”  Steve looks legitimately confused for a moment, but the cogs start to turn again.  “Oh.”  Then, “ _Oh_.”  He shakes his head.  “I’m not gonna…It’s not my business to ask.”

“It’s not,” Nat agrees flatly.

“Right.”  Steve presses the Gatorade again.  “I hope you’re not thinking of going on this mission.”

Nat wraps her shaking hand around the bottle and rests it on her knee. “What choice do I have?”

“Um…I was thinking you could just be honest.  You’re…not well.”  Of course Steve would say that.  Everything’s maddeningly straightforward to him.

“I’m fine,” Nat snaps.  She takes a small sip of the sports drink and swallows it twice.  It’s so sweet it makes her teeth ache, but it wakes up her taste buds.  A craving for more sugar washes through Nat’s throat with renewed nausea, and she isn’t sure if her instinct is to take another gulp or spit up the one she’s already downed.  She splits the difference and takes a tiny swig, then lowers the bottle, cringing.

“Nat,” Steve sighs.  He looks tired.  Exasperation might finally be setting in.  “You’re not.  You need medical attention, not to go on a mission.  Let me take you home.”

“You can’t,” Nat protests.  “Hill’s—well, SHIELD’s— sending a car for us.  I can’t just not be here after I told her I would be.”

“I’m pretty sure you can, Nat.  It’s called taking a sick day.”  Steve laughs, but it does nothing to break the tension.  “We had those back in the 40s.  I’m don’t think things haven’t changed that much.”

Nat sighs and wills either her head or her heart to stop throbbing.  It seems too much to wish for both.  “I hate to break it to you, Steve,” she says before taking another sip of Gatorade, “But you don’t know me that well.  You don’t know my history.”

Steve looks taken aback.  Maybe a little hurt.  “I guess I don’t.”

“You should focus on the mission,” Nat says, finally meeting Steve’s eye and looking through him.  “You say a single word to her, and I’ll stab you in your sleep.”

“But, Nat, it’s not like…” Steve shakes his head. “I’m just worried.”

“I don’t care. Use your goddamn modesty and keep your mouth shut.”

“I…”  Steve hesitates.  “Ok.”

Nat’s still nauseated when the glossy black Hummer pulls up to the curb, but the feeling’s manageable.  She’s confident she’s not going to vomit again, so long as the car ride and plane ride are free of turbulence.  Though when the back passenger door opens and Agent Hill grins out, Nat’s not so sure anymore.  She clambers into the car and sits heavily in the middle seat, stretching her legs out in front of her. 

“Good to see you.”  Maria kisses Nat on the cheek.  She reaches around her to shake Steve’s hand, her wrist and forearm brushing gratuitously across Nat’s chest.  Nat rolls her eyes, but the motion makes bile rise in her throat, so she just wipes crusted salt from her brow and leans her head back against the seat.

Agent Hill lapses into professionalism as the car takes them to the airstrip outside the sprawling SHIELD campus.  She briefs them on mission requirements, which is to say she briefs Steve.  Civilians held in a factory under some politician-cum-drug lord with a little too much tech to be just that, yada yada…  

Nat stops listening.  She does catch Maria’s raised eyebrows around the term “by any means necessary.”  In the context of evacuating civilians, of course.  But just because there’s no outright mention of fucking intel out the sleazebags doesn’t mean there isn’t an expectation.  When Maria hands them their gear bags, Nat sees that she’s packed the suit with the built-in pushup bra.  It leaves her with no doubt in her mind and a rising wave of sick in her stomach.

Steve exits the car onto the sunny airstrip first, and he holds his hand out to Nat.  She tries to ignore him, but vertigo kicks back up as soon as she’s on her feet, and she settles for grabbing his fingers as smoothly as possible.  He shoots her a worried look and murmurs, “You ok?” as he steadies her. 

“Yeah.”  Nat yanks her clammy palm out of Steve’s grip as quickly as she can. 

“You’re not staying up all night again, are you?” Maria asks with a dark laugh.  “I’d hate to hear you’re lapsing back into bad habits.”

“Nope.”  Nat’s positive her poker face is intact, but her heart rate rockets again.  She sucks in air as slowly as she can.

Nat slips into the jet’s bathroom as soon as she’s aboard.  She mumbles that she’s going to change into her battle dress, pretending not to see Maria’s semi-disappointed expression.  Some days Nat doesn’t care about privacy.  But today she does.  Plus, she’s already chosen not to bare her skin in front of Steve once. It would be bad to have a double standard.

Nat uses a damp paper towel to mop more clammy saltiness from the back of her neck and under her arms.  She looks at herself in the mirror again.  She’s still pale, and her eyes look sunken now.  Her cheekbones seem sharper than they were a couple hours ago.  Nat knows it means dehydration; she can’t have actually lost visible weight in that short a time.  A thrill of excitement joins the queasiness in her stomach, though, and Nat can barely jump over to the toilet before she retches up Gatorade that’s gone sour.  When she’s done, she shakily strips out of her running clothes and pulls on the leather jumpsuit in her bag.  Nat fumbles with her belt; her fingers are clumsy, and the buckle is stubborn.  She has to pull it farther than she did the last time she wore this suit, yanking it down to the unblemished leather around the tightest hole.

Nat leaves the bathroom to find a seat and wait for takeoff.  She’s surprised to see Sam Wilson has joined the party.  He looks up when Nat enters the cabin.  “Hey,” he greets her.  “How you doing?”

“Great,” Nat says through her teeth.  She looks at Steve, then away before they can establish eye contact.  He doesn’t seem taken aback by the sudden presence of a third wheel, so Nat sighs and mentally berates herself for not paying better attention to Hill’s mission overview.  She sits beside Steve, but angles her body away from him.  A clear message that she doesn’t want to talk. 

Steve gets her attention anyway.  He holds Nat’s seatbelt out to her, forcing her to acknowledge him or draw attention for her rudeness.  “Thanks,” she sighs, sounding anything but grateful. 

“You good?” he asks as she snaps it into place.  He’s not talking about the safety belt. He probably heard her tossing her guts.

Knowing she’s pinned into her seat makes Nat’s stomach churn.  “Yeah, I said I’m great.”  Damn Steve and his supersoldier senses.  His stupid chivalry and savior complex. Nat would shake her head at him if she thought she could without setting off another round of painful throbs.

Maria enters the cabin from the cockpit, her hair a little sleeker, and a few extra guns and radios hanging from her belt.  “Getting reacquainted?” she asks, taking the seat beside Sam.  Directly opposite Nat.  Nat stares out the window. 

The intercom clicks on, and the recorded autopilot relays their flight path and estimated arrival time.  The weather’s clear, and they should hit their destination in a couple of hours.  The jet begins to taxi down the runway, and Nat tells herself it’s not that bad.  It’ll be a smooth ride, a quick mission.  Nothing to worry about.  But then she catches Maria ogling the zipper at the front of her suit, and prickles of nauseous sweat break out across Nat’s temples.

Once they’re in the air and stabilize, Nat pretends to fall asleep.  She leans close enough to Steve to make Maria angry, but leaves a couple inches of tense space to let Steve know she’s still serious.  It’s a good charade; she almost has herself convinced that her long, slow breaths have calmed her stomach, but then her ears pop, and Nat’s back to square one, swallowing frantically against a pressing dry heave. 

“Geez,” Sam complains, rubbing the side of his face.  It’s clear he felt the pressure change too.  Nat uses it as cover to stretch her jaw and re-settle in her seat.  She crosses her arms over her abdomen. 

Steve micro-adjusts beside Nat.  “I didn’t feel anything,” he says, directing the comment to Sam.  “Was it bad?”  Nat tries not to look at him, but she knows that part was for her.  The heat of sickness and embarrassment roasts her face and neck, but Nat doesn’t think there’s enough color in her cheeks to flush. 

“Dude,” Sam laughs.  “Yeah.”

“I thought you’d be used to it, with your pilot background and all,” Steve says.  Nat can hear him grinning.

“Yeah, well, it’s a little different with the wind whipping you in the face.  Ask your girl there.  I’m sure she felt it.”  Sam’s shoe finds Nat’s across the aisle.  “Earth to Sleeping Beauty.”

“Aw, leave her alone,” Steve says. 

“We’re landing soon,” Agent Hill says tersely.  Nat can guess which statement she’s taking issue with. 

“I’m up, I’m up,” Nat grumbles.  She rubs her eyes against the cloudy brightness in the cabin.  “…should get back to business anyway…”

“Of course.”  Maria’s smile is a little too saccharine.  It makes Nat feel hot around the collar again, and still not in a good way. 

The jet begins its descent, and Agent Hill goes over the tag-team duties again.  “Rogers, you’re on hostage evacuation.  Wilson, medevac.  Everyone eliminate hostiles as the need arises.  Romanov, you know what you’re doing.”

“Sure,” Nat says.  She knows what Hill means, what she wants captured on Nat’s body cam and then replayed more than strictly necessary, and probably on electronic devices that aren’t property of SHIELD.  And Nat’ll do it.  She won’t complain.  She might vomit first, though.  And maybe again after. 

The landing gear bumps against the runway for a second, then smooth motion resumes as the jet slows to a stop.  The movement seems to reverberate in Nat’s head and filter down her body, and she’s dizzy when she undoes her seatbelt and finds her feet.  Steve waits for her to pass before he stands up, and Nat can feel his eyes boring into the back of her head. 

“I’ll be here on headset,” Maria says, opening a laptop and throwing her feet up on Nat’s vacated chair.  “The factory’s less then half a mile from here.  You should have no trouble finding it…”

Nat isn’t nervous.  This doesn’t promise to be a difficult mission.  Her heart thuds against her ribcage, and the echo of rushing blood plays in her ears like a waterfall. Maria’s voice dries to a murmur while Nat’s own breath rattles into her throat.  She goes to take the step from the jet down to the runway, but everything goes white.  She feels herself falling, then she doesn’t feel anything. 

***

“…at?  Nat?”

“Come on.  Wake up.” 

Somebody’s tapping her cheek.  Nat opens her eyes a sliver.  She smells sweat and cologne, and she recognizes the person bending over her before his face swims into focus.  It’s Steve.  Of course it’s Steve.

Nat groans and tries to sit up, but dizziness grips her, and her head clunks back to the ground.  Nat’s breath leaves her in a gust. 

“Hey.  You were really scaring me there,” Steve murmurs. 

“’m fine,” Nat wheezes.  It’s an automatic response.  If her brain was actually working, she might have thought about how ridiculous she sounds and offered an excuse instead.

“Nat…”  Steve smiles, but shakes his head.  “You’re not.  You need to let go of that.”

“Shut up,” she groans.

“Move over, big guy,” Sam’s voice says from somewhere over Nat’s head.  “Let me take a look.”

Nat doesn’t quite hear the next bit; everyone seems to be talking at once.  Maria’s sharp tone joins the discussion, and Nat winces involuntarily. 

“Leave her with me, there are civilian hostages counting on you,” she says over Steve and Sam’s chatter.

“God, I’m fine,” Nat repeats.  She claws her way up to a seated position, using the wall as support.  She barely gets there when her jaw seems to disengage of its own accord, and she’s heaving air and acid into her lap. 

Steve’s hands are on her in an instant.  “Oh, geez.  Ok, Nat.  Just breathe,” he says. 

“How did this get this bad this fast?” Sam says.  “She was fine a minute ago, wasn’t she?”

Nat feels Steve sigh as much as she hears it. 

“Don’t you dare,” she rasps into his chest.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.  Then, “She’s, uh, been sick this morning.  I knew about it.”

“You what?”  Sam sounds personally offended.  “And you didn’t think to tell me that?  Your medical guy?”

“Well, no,” Steve says, defensiveness kicking in.  “We were out for a run, she was a little lightheaded.  Nothing major.”

“I was ok,” Nat says, backing him up.  “I  _am_  ok.”

“You know you’re obligated to disclose things like this.”  Maria’s voice is perfectly measured.  “You’re not supposed to keep things from me.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Nat groans, before she realizes the full gamut of connotations of her words.  It hits too late, and she whispers, “Nevermind.”

“Shh, just, be calm.”  Steve pats her on the back.  “Try to get your strength.”

“You said she was lightheaded earlier?  Is she hydrated?”

“Wilson, you still have a mission,” Maria cuts in. 

“Like hell I do.  My mission is to make sure my team is ok.”

“We still have to deliver.  If this mission falls through, all our necks are on the line.”  Of course, what Agent Hill means is that her neck will be on the line.  Nat hears the laptop snap shut.  “Rogers, you’re on paid administrative leave.  Effective immediately.”

“What?  Why?” Steve asks, loosely cupping his hand over Nat’s ear to shield her from his rising volume.

“For withholding mission-critical data,” Maria pronounces.  “Same to you, Romanov.  And your return to active duty will hinge on a full medical clearance.”

Nat can’t bring herself to care.  She can barely bring herself to breathe.

“How do I still have a mission when you’re making their asses wait in the car?” Sam asks indignantly. 

“Contrary to popular belief, I know how to work in the field,” Maria huffs.  “I’m your partner now, Wilson.” 

“Are you sure it’s safe to leave her?”  Nat can hear Sam rummaging gin his medical kit.  “She could need IV fluids—”

“See to it when we get back,” Agent Hill dictates.  “Since Rogers seems to know what’s best for Romanov…”  She finishes with what can only be a shrug. 

“Yeah,” Steve says through gritted teeth.  “I do.”

There’s a rustling of gear, then a sensation of free-fall in the pit of Nat’s stomach as Steve lifts her out of the doorway.  He lays her across two seats, and Nat blinks hard to try to convince herself the world’s stopped moving around her.  She hears the cabin door shut, and she finally lets out her breath.  

Nat’s flooded with the desire to apologize, but instinct tells her to stand her ground.  Sick grogginess hangs in her throat as she jams the heels of her hands into her eye sockets and groans, “Fuck.”

“Hm.”  Steve sighs.  “Yeah.”

“Go ahead.  Tell me off,” Nat murmurs. 

Steve settles on the floor beside her head.  “No.  I’m not gonna do that.”

“Why?  I fucked it all up.”

“No.  It’s my fault,” Steve says.  “I should’ve stuck to my guns.  I should have seen how sick you are…”

“How sick I am,” Nat repeats.  “ _Sick_.”

“Yeah, you’re not thinking too straight right now.”

“Am I ever?”  Nat ponders the nights spent crouched on the bathroom floor, the empty bottles of alcohol and painkillers in her trash, the walks of shame she sometimes takes from Maria’s penthouse.  Or her office.  She wonders if Steve knows.  A shiver of paranoia runs up her spine. 

“You cold?” 

Nat shrugs.  “It’s, like, 100 degrees outside.”

Steve’s hand finds Nat’s forehead.  “Geez, you’re boiling.  Are you running hot or cold right now?”

“Neither.  ‘M fine.”  It comes out more slurred than Nat intends.  She means it to sound firm, but in reality it’s anything but. 

“Nat.”  Steve strokes her hair away from her face.  His fingers invite rivulets of cool air into the tracks he creates along her sweaty hairline.  “I think we’re past this.  The lying?”

“’M not.”

“You can be honest with me.  I don’t see why that’s so hard for you.”

“Hmph.  You don’t see a lot of things.”

“Then…explain it.  I might not get it.  But I can listen.”  Steve’s eyes are wide in anticipation. 

Nat blinks a couple of times as she wonders where she’d even start.  If she even wanted to talk.  Which she doesn’t. 

Maybe at the Vaganova school, where she’d learned ballet and bulimia.  Or the red room, where she’d go right form the shooting range to the bathroom to put on lipstick and slip of her underwear before heading out to meet married men to “study” with.  Or maybe her KGB days, where she had a three-year-long sinus infection, and every time she went near that crack dealer it was with the sincere intent to arrest him.  Or maybe the first time she slept with Clint.  Or with Maria. 

Hell, she could start with the vodka and pills and fingers slipped down her throat last night and still get the gist of the story out.  She’s never been rewarded for telling the truth.  Nat isn’t sure she even knows how.  That’s one trick she hasn’t learned. 

She lets out a long breath and does the most honest thing she can.  She starts to cry.

It’s mostly because her head hurts, but the tears won’t stop flowing, and even when she runs dry, Nat’s face still contorts and her breath comes in gasping sobs that make her diaphragm jump high into her chest.  Her mind shuffles images like a deck of cards, showing her unpleasant memories juxtaposed against an even less desirable reality.

Something cold touches Nat’s cheek, and she shies away, burrowing her face into the tacky leather seat. 

“It’s ok, Nat.  I’m just cooling you off.”

But she doesn’t want to be sponged off with a paper towel.  She doesn’t have the flu, even though she told the ballet mistress that’s why she was being sick in the bathroom.  She doesn’t need the fever reducers.  But she likes the way they make her head airy and her thoughts fuzzy around the edges.

“No,” she hears herself say.  But Nat can’t tell if it’s in her head or not.  Even the language is difficult to distinguish. 

***

Time passes.  A few minutes.  Perhaps a few years. 

“I know you’re not really awake, Nat, but you need to take a drink.”  A bottle presses to her lips, but Nat shoves it away.  She doesn’t know what it is, but it’s going to make her groggy.  She can’t afford to do poorly on the exam tomorrow. 

“I don’t want to…”

_ Come on, girl, you said we’d have a good time. _   Nat can smell the alcohol on his breath.  He doesn’t take a sip of what he’s offering her; that’s far more potent than beer.

“Nat, you’ve got to work with me.  I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You always say that…”  She groans, pushing the bottle further away.

“Nat.”  The lid screws back on the sports drink.  Steve grabs her shoulders, his grip firm, yet gentle.  “Who’s hurting you?”  His face is serious.  Nat sees it clearly for a moment before everything blurs again. 

***

 

Nat’s marginally more aware when she next opens her eyes. She knows she’s sick. She knows laid out somewhere she has no business being. She knows she’s supposed to be at work. She can’t be, though. She’s dreaming. But not the dreams of being shot at that she’s used to.

 

“You with me this time, Nat?”

 

She knows it’s Steve. But the scene doesn’t fit. She’s remembering something else. Waking up with a hangover and couch-cushion imprints on her cheek. It seems more substantial than what she knows about reality.

 

“You need to drink something. It’s been too long.” Liquid sloshes; a plastic label crinkles.

 

“…no…” Nat feels disgusting. She’s going to throw up if she moves.

 

“No, you won’t. You’re all empty.” Did she say that out loud?

 

“Nat,” Steve says. “You’re really sick. You still have symptoms of heat exhaustion from this morning.”

 

It’s too many words for Nat to process. She feels the big knuckles against her jaw, though.

 

“We need to cool you off.”

 

Cool off… Like dry out? Nat feels drunk. She’s spent too much time drunk lately.

 

A hand rests on her shoulder, grounding her. It feels good. But the second hand fiddling with the zipper at the collar of her jumpsuit is less welcome. The zipper opens between her breasts, and the cool air flowing over Nat’s skin is a relief, but the terror that washes over her is anything but. She lashes out with her arms as she drags her knees toward her chest. “Get off,” she groans. “Get away.”

 

“Ok.” Steve’s touch evaporates. His next words come from further away. “I’m sorry, Nat. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

 

“Don’t touch me,” Nat says. She’s moved too much, and the nausea is overwhelming. She gags, and bile bubbles up into her throat. Nat starts to choke.

 

Hill is going to kill her for soiling her sofa. If she hasn’t already kill Nat for refusing her advances.

 

“You’ve got to breathe, ok, Nat? Come on.” Someone’s bending close, but Nat’s eyes are watering too much for her to see.

 

“Get…away…from me…”

 

“I’m sorry, Nat, I really am.” He sounds desperate. “I don’t know what else to do”

 

 _He_. Not Maria. It’s fine. Nat’s fine. But her mind/body connection is too slow, and she cringes anyway as Steve slaps her on the back.

 

“I’m really sorry, Nat. I’m really sorry.”

 

“…no…” Why is she still resisting? Nat’s _fine._

“I know. Just…you gotta breathe, ok?”

 

Steve’s arms are around her; his shoulder’s in her face. The smell of Nat’s vomit mixes with his musk and fills all of Nat’s senses.

 

She’s ok. She’s going to be fine. Nat takes a shuddering breath.

 

“Ok. Good.” The pats between her shoulder blades decrease in intensity. “Ok.”

 

Nat’s head throbs. She can feel her heart stuttering. But even more crushing than the feelings of illness is the soul-numbing sensation of regret.

 

For all her years of drug use and abusing her body, is this how it’s going to end? Draped over Steve Rogers’ shoulder, on a damn airplane, in god-forsaken Mexico City? There have been countless injuries that have threatened her life, both before SHIELD and after. A couple of them self-inflicted. Nat’s wished for death plenty of times. Hell, she thought about killing herself last night.

 

How much has she fucked herself up? How much of this pain would be avoided if Nat had just eaten a square meal or put down the liquor bottle? How much less would she hurt how if she’d said no the first time Maria asked her over for dinner and a movie?

 

“Nat.” Steve’s hand embeds in her hair. “I’m not letting her hurt you anymore. I’m not letting anyone hurt you.”

 

Oh god. What is she saying? What is she doing? How much has she let slip to Mr. morality himself? Nat shakes her head to clear it, but it only makes her dizzier. She whimpers without meaning to.

 

“Shhh, it’s ok. You’re safe. You hear me? You’re safe.”

 

“No… I don’t…” Nat’s voice breaks into a wracking, tearless sob.

 

“Nothing’s gonna happen. I swear,” Steve whispers.

 

“You can’t…” Nat gasps. “You can’t fix it.”

 

Steve lets out a breath. He deflates a little, but he’s still solid under Nat’s wobbling chin. “Maybe not all of it,” he admits. “But I’m damn well gonna try. I’m not gonna let you go, Nat. I’m not.” He keeps his arms around her, but pulls his head back an inch. “Ok?” He looks into her eyes.

 

“I…” The lump in Nat’s throat keeps her from forming words. Or thoughts.

 

Steve slowly strokes his hand from Nat’s back to her shoulder, then down her arm. He breaks the contact at the last possible moment and picks up the bottle of Gatorade. “You ready for some of this?” he asks.

 

Nat hesitates. She draws in a breath. And she nods.

 

_____

Whenever you need someone  
To lay your heart and head upon  
Remember, after the fire, after all the rain  
I will be the flame

_____


End file.
